Darlings, How Much Heterosexist Bullshit Must We Be Asked To Take???

Girls, and by that I mean not only my gay male readers, but all you real ladies, not just the faux ones, who are often straight guys secretly wearing panties, after reading all 339 pages of Jonathan Tropper's novel "This Is Where I Leave You," there are some things that need to be said, The first is there has to be a law enacted against writers with the first name of Jonathan, because there are just too many of them. And unlike the others--the Messrs. Franzen, Lethem and SafranFoer, Mr. Tropper is out of their league as he lacks something they all have--discipline and coshesiveness.

The book is so all over the place because instead of settling down and writing something insightful about a family united at a shiva, he detracts into sexual ramblings that make this household as disturbed as the one in "Capturing The Friedmans," with the exception that Tropper thinks it is all fine. The only purpose here seems to be to prove that Jud Foxman, the potagonist, and his siblings are MEN WITH TESTOSTERONE!!!! Give me a break!!!! If you paid me a dollar for each time the word breast, pussy, and ass is used as evaluative quantifiers for the female sex, I would not have to go back to work on Monday. I mean, the self righteous heterosexual tone projected serves no dramatic purpose, bores fast, and I find personally offensive. Not to mention the fact that every time the concept of being gay or someone MALE being gay is mentioned, it is in the most negative terms.

So of course The New York Times picks Janet Maslin to review it, where she raves about the wisecracks, evidencing the same lack of self awareness and capability to think as when she called that crappy film called "Titanic" "the greatest romantic epic since 'Gone With The Wind.'" Hang up the reviewer hat, Janet, and go on Dionne Warwick's Psychic Channel.

See what a bitch this novel makes me? Of course, it doesn't take much to make me a bitch anyway, So I will just say to Mr. Tropper--just because a few select passages and have some promise that show you can write does not excuse your from being a self righteous heterosexual prick who is clearly Jud Foxman himself. Darlings, I could not wait to get away from these people. If Mr. Tropper wants to last as a writer, he better stop projecting upon his readers his self aggrandizing fantasies of himself as some stud muffin, because that act tires REAL fast. And I have news for you, Mr. Westchester Suburbanite, there ARE gay men in Westchester, some of whom may live in your neighborhood! So get over it! Or move to Jersey where you can still find some towns set in a time warp where it is still 1958.

Hell, I am just having so much fun, lambs, bitching and basing Tropper's book. But if I save at least one of you out there the trouble of reading this crap, then my efforts will not be in vain.

Tomorrow, girls, we will talk about culinary advancement. I am nearly ready to attempt a Julia Child recipie! Until then, loves!